I’ve told family about my magnificent coup. Clint said it was fantastic news and that I’ve done really well. He acted as if he was genuinely pleased for me. Ha ha ha, oh to be so bitter and to have to hide it so well, well that won’t do his health any good but then I suppose he better get use to it as he’ll have a lifetime congratulating me on my amazing successes while he stands idly by and marvels. Miller however was TOO bloody happy! He already thinks that it’ll be the Miller show! He’s even thought up a catchphrase for himself ‘Dribblylicious’ his new word to replace ‘cool’. I’ve told him that if he puts one foot out of line, he’s nuts will have a date with my size nines. However not all my family were so enthusiastic. Mom, Dad and Marie all seemed upset about a TV crew being here. Why? They just can’t stand my brilliance; it’s as if my brilliance makes them realize what losers they are!

Anyway, I can’t let myself be distracted by this at the moment as its mission time. I’m ready to go and secretly mingle with the local yokels in The Queens Legs. I’ve taken off my slick glossy shirt and tie, put away my designer glasses, messed my hair up and I’ve peeled one of Millers crude t-shirts off of his bedroom floor. I didn’t iron it (must fit in with the common people). I also managed to find a pair of his jeans which weren’t caked in old crusty vomit, nor had an old pair of discarded skiddy pants left inside them. I ALMOST put on some aftershave but luckily didn’t, they’ll sniff me out if I don’t spell of piss. Lucky escape.

Right, so now I look the part, well almost. My beard growing op has gone a bit awry. I’ve never tried growing a beard before, and all I’ve seemed to have grown is some bristle beneath my nose, which has a kinda Hitler shape about it. No time to shave now though, must dash. Watch out Queens Legs, big Cox is coming!

I’ve had to get myself a drink, calm the nerves… a pint of coke with a splosh of vodka.

Just after my last log entry I went straight off to carry out my plan. Bloody Clint, this is all his fault, him and his stupid feckin karaoke contest…anyway, so yeah, I headed off to steal us some customers for Clints BASTARD first karaoke heat on SundayI manage to get inside the Queens Legs without detection and discovered it was as scabby and dirty as I imagined it would be. The carpet was like sticky shit and all the lights were off. It would have been pitch black if it wasn’t for the blinding strobe lights going mental. The music was far too loud, terrible karaoke noise. There was hardly any room to move, I could barely make my way through the packed crowd to get to the bar, and how they make money if people can’t get to the bar I don’t know. They very clearly have no idea how to run a business properly. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer in the shit hole, so I decided to get to work straight away. It was clear that people needed to learn about the much better quality of pub that was now operating under my superior rule just up the road. Those bastards should have thanked me, there I was, certainly a class above them all, willing to allow that rabble into my establishment….but they didn’t thank me…not at all! This is what happened.

After I got myself a half weak shandy, served with a smug laugh for some reason, probably because they know they are robbing me blind for paying for such watered down piss, I sat myself down next to the only person in the whole place who was wearing a suit, a good place to start I thought. He was all by himself at the end of the bar and was trying to read a newspaper. Poor sod I thought, he was just typical of the sort of person I wanted to save from the dive. He clearly looked like a respectable fella, a tall solid man, with fine graying hair and a kind face. He obviously just wanted a pint after a hard day at the office and to be able to read his newspaper and unfortunately for him the only pub he could go to was this crass, vulgar place. I lent in close to him and began speaking into his ear

The man looked a bit startled, but I just put this down to him obviously not being use to being spoken to in anything other than the grunts that’s half the blokes around us looked like they communicated with. Anyway, he looked a bit taken aback but he was listening still, so I smiled and got a little closer so that he could hear me over the terrible karaoke racket.

“Would you like to go somewhere else” I asked

“Aye?”

“Would you like to go somewhere a bit quieter with me, somewhere a bit more relaxing and enjoyable for you?”

“What!” he shouted, still clearly finding it hard to hear me, so I put my lips as near to his near as possible.

“LOOK, COME WITH ME AND I CAN SHOW YOU A GOOD TIME AT MY PLACE”

I don’t know what he thought I said, the music being the nuisance it was, but he started pushing me, shouting at me. I tried to get close to him again so that he could hear me properly but he kept pushing me away until I tripped and fell to the floor. I thought he was going to crash a stool over my head but the song being sung ended and I was able to quickly make myself clear to him.

“I’m from the Royal Ship up the road” I screamed, and luckily this seemed to stop him dropping a cask iron bar chair on me. “I was just trying to tell you that you don’t need to drink in this shit hole, this fecking dive! I’ve taken over the pub just up the street and it is everything that this place isn’t. It has class; it doesn’t smell shit, look shit, or sound shit. This place is full of dick heads, my place isn’t!

I soon realized that there was a silence, that no song had replaced the one that had previously ended and that everyone was looking at me lying on the floor calling them all dickheads. I pretty quickly realized that most of those dickheads were now stood around me and swiftly had me up in the air. There was a massive uproar and for a moment there was utter chaos and confusion. I was being pushed and passed around a sea of vile, crude, angry faces of men and women. I looked haplessly for the man I had been speaking to, hoping that he would realize that I was trying to help him, and that he would come to my rescue and help me. After what felt like an eternity I found myself pushed onto the karaoke stage and forced to sit down on a chair by two big shirtless sweaty bald gorillas. The crowd of people was positively medieval, they wanted blood and were shouting all sorts of punishments that these brutes should dole out to me. In that moment I knew how Jesus must have felt, how he tried to help those around him and ended up being bitch slapped. People began laughing, pointing, making out that I was crying, but I swear I wasn’t, it was sweat running off my brow, though I was quite happy they didn’t notice that I had pissed myself.

Suddenly everyone went quiet. The crowd parted and the suited gentleman made his way to the stage. He dismissed the two thugs whose hands had been clamped to the back on my neck and arms and I felt relieved that I was being saved, that this man was obviously respected and that he would tell the people how wrong they were, perhaps even pointing out that the pub that they were in was obviously infecting their behavior in a negative way and that a more classy establishment would be better for those in the crowd who didn’t want to be surrounded by members who belonged to the dregs of society. However he said nothing, well nothing I could hear. He whispered something into one of the thug’s ear and then something into the other thug’s ear. I went to stand up to embrace my savior but I was quickly thrown violently back into my seat and once again held there. The man did nothing to assist me and it was then that I suspected that perhaps he was not there to help me at all.

One of the big bare chested men quickly jumped off of the stage and started gesturing directions to the crowd, moving amongst them, whispering instructions to them. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, other than the fact that I was the only person in the pub who was not laughing, whooping or cheering.

After a few minutes it became clear that the rabble of drunks, louts, hags and low lives were forming a long queue in front of the stage, in front of me! Then the suited man, who had been standing mutedly at my side, strolled across to the karaoke machine and picked up a microphone

“Hello everybody,” his shrill voice booming from the gigantic speakers that hung from every corner of my hell hole, “are you having a good night?”

“YES” roared the crowd

“Great, good, superb, mega. Well I wish everyone was, but as you probably heard, this young gentleman here….what’s your name son?”

“Jacob” I stuttered

“Jacob what?”

“Jacob Cox”

“Aw, Cock, well everybody, Cock here was not having a good time, in fact he came right up to me and told me so, not so kindly explaining that my pub is a shit hole, and that you all are shit heads, sorry, he didn’t say that…dick heads, you are all dick heads and that a fine looking man like myself should not be amongst the dick heads”

At this point the crowd started booing me, throwing beer over me and anything else that they had in their hands, like it was some kind of adult pantomime.

“Well I didn’t think that was very nice, was that very nice?....”

“NOOOO” shouted the crowd

“No, I thought not, in fact I thought it was quite naughty…how naughty?”

“Fucking naughty” “Super naughty” “Very naughty” were some of the voices that rung out from the crowd

“Yes, VERY naughty, and what do we do to naughty boys ladies and gentlemen?”

And all together the crowd shouted “SMACK’EM”

Suddenly I found myself uprooted, tossed up into the air and slammed back to the ground on my chest, before being hurled up and bounded over the chair I had been sat on. Then Millers jeans were forcibly removed, leaving me completely bottomless, naked from the waist down. I was in utter shock! I really feared for my bum virginity.

“Yes ladies and gentlemen, we smack naughty boys, so that they learn not to be naughty again” and with that the suited man dropped his mic and gave me an almighty slap on the ass, the pain from which was white hot. He was quickly followed by all the men and women in the queue, who took their turn to spank me. I was like a fair ground ride, people were posing next to my red ass to have their photos taken! I think I passed out for a moment, but I soon woke up when I heard the suited man voice from the speakers again.

“Hello everybody, are you having fun?”

“YESSSS!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Mega, brilliant, fantastic. Well I want to make an announcement. It looks like the Royal Ship is hosting a karaoke contest” The suited man was holding up a flyer, a flyer that I had in my pocket, one which Clint had handed to me earlier in the day. “And apparently it is going to be the best karaoke contest in the WHOLE Southwest, not just the best in town folk, but the BEST in the WHOLE of the Southwest. Well who would miss that aye?”

“MEEEE!” screamed the crowd

“What? You’re not going to go to the BEST bar in town, well where are you gonna go?”

“HERE!!!!” screamed the cheering queue, which was halfway through pummeling my now bamboo bum.

“What, this shithole, ha ha ha, you’re too kind. Well because you are SOOOO kind, and so good to be gracing us with your presence, I’ll tell you what, we’ll have our very own karaoke contest here…starting SUNDAY!!!!!!”

The crowd went mental.

“Spread the word, the best karaoke competition start here on Sunday!”

Then Mr Suit man stopped a old couple who were taking photos of each other making my ass.

“Hey, stop that” he said in a fake kind voice “you’ll hurt it!” Everyone looked at him and me in confusion

“Hurt what?” I heard a little old lady say

“Mr Bunny!” Answered Mr. Suit man, who pointed to the embarrassingly large lodge of bum fluff between my red bum cheeks. The crowd erupted like they had just witnessed a Beatles reunion suddenly before them. “I THINK IT LOOKS A BIT PEEKY, A BIT ILL” he shouted to be heard over the roar of laughter. He then held up a rather large carrot. “SHOULD WE FEED IT AND MAKE IT FEEL BETTER?”

“YES” screamed the crowd

“Nooooo!” screamed me.

I kicked, bite, slapped and struggled to break free. Eventually I saw Mr Suit man wave his hand at the giant who had his huge arms wrapped around me and I was let go. Like a trapped rat I saw my chance to escape and flew through the cackling crowd and out of the door and I ran as fast as my little bare legs could carry me up the road. My keys were in Millers jeans, which were still inside the Queens Legs, so I had no choice but to run through the main entrance of my own pub, and passed the only person who was inside, my mother, who………………………………….

2342 HRS

Fuckity FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I fear I have unleashed the devil. I didn’t finish my last entry because Mom burst into my room asking why I had ran half naked through the pub with a red monkey ass. Stupidly, perhaps the most stupid, most dangerous mistake I have ever made, I told her everything and made things a whole lot worse!

OMG SOMETHING AMAZING HAS JUST HAPPENED!!! I’m sure I mentioned it a few days ago; well one of my big ideas was to get some free publicity (it was idea number 3 on my list). I’ve been emailing celebrities and offering them the chance to drink and stay here for free. The idea was that they would turn up and then I’d let the press know, and then all of their fans would turn this place in to some kinda Mecca and flock ere, thus making us a fortune while we exploit them. On TV at the moment there is a reality program about an old 80’s rocker and his famous porno model girlfriend, well they were one of the people that I emailed and just ten minutes ago their manager rang me up. He said (in real bad cock-knee) that the couple (Mick Champagne and his partner Sunshine) would love to come and stay with us and enjoy our kind offer of free booze. He asked if I minded if the TV crew came with them too. Do I mind? I almost fell off my fucking chair. I played it dead cool though and said the more the merrier. I’ve hit the fucking jackpot! I’m such a fucking genius. I’m gonna be rich! Probably famous too. When people see such cool celebs in my pub, everyone in and out of town is gonna queue around the block to get in here. My family will have to queue to kiss my hairy ass in thanks of my mightiness, for all the money I will make us! The manager (Chas) asked if it was okay if Mick and Sunshine came down this Saturday and Sunday because they are flying out to America next week to record a new album together. I said that was fine and that we would look forward to having’em.

I’m more determined than ever now to get as many people as possible out of The Queens Legs tomorrow and into here. I want this pub looking busy when the cameras are rolling. I want the whole of the UK to see what kind of pub this is…OH SHIT! Fuck fuck fuck. It’s the Bakers birthday party on Sunday SHITTTTTTTT!

My plan today was to sit in the office and work out every last fine detail of what I’m gonna do when I’m inside the Queens Legs tomorrow. I’ve gotta slip in undetected, get what I want, then pull out fast! It’s such a great plan, I’m almost giddy with excitement because it is gonna feel great doing it, even though someone like me shouldn’t have to go into such a shit hole. God my family don’t deserve me and my brilliance. After yesterday I almost felt like saying bollocks to the pub, bollocks to the lot’em. Let’em roll in the shit they make for themselves, but then I remember that I’m not doing this for them, this is for me. Tomorrow is when my Empire grows like a beautiful flower out of compost. Though it’s quite hard for such a wonderful rose to grow when the shit keeps getting piled on.

Every two minutes there was a knock at the office door. First Curly asking for a hand with the beer delivery (really, would a maid ask a King for a hand serving the dinner?), so I told him not to be so bleedin cheeky and bugger off. Then Miller rung down to the office phone and asked me for some money to make the fat woman in his bed go away (he swore he never knew she was a prossy). I had Clint badgering me every two minutes about his crappy Karaoke contest. He wanted to discuss what sort of ad we should put in the local paper and how we should organize the event. I didn’t have time for his stupid little plans, not when I have a proper master plan to sort out! Then there was Marie. She didn’t knock on my door. In fact she was very quiet today, which worried me even more. All day I saw her on my CCTV, sat huddled in the corner of the pub, but she wasn’t on her own. It seems Marie has a new little friend, a little ginger head lad. White as ice cream, he has the kinda dead blue eyes you would see in a horror film. The sight of the pair of them hunched over a piece of paper finally got the better of me and so I went out to inspect what they were up to. Maria, being as sharp as a vicious cat, quickly noticed me coming and I saw her snatch the paper in front of her, into her fist.

“You two okay?” I kindly asked

“Fuck off spac face” came the charming response from my little sister. Many times I have wondered if I could convince a court that I was not a child abuser if I punched the little fecker in the head, but British justice being what it is I thought I’d best not try my luck and so let her remark go. I turned to the boy and asked him if he would like a drink (best treat him nice, then he can tell his family what a lovely pub his new friends family has). He didn’t say anything; he just seemed to stare at me with pant shitting frightened eyes.

“Come on Macky, we’re going outside now!” my sister shouted to the little boy. She jumped off of her chair and darted out of the front door, with the strange little lad quickly following after her. For the rest of the day I saw the pair on my office CCTV coming in and out of the pub, the whole time Marie’s new friend seemed glued to her side, though he looked like he didn’t actually wanna be anywhere near her. I’ll have to keep an eye on her, cos no one else will. I’m sure she is up to no good.

You know you’re having a bad day when the rest of the family are acting worse than Miller!

I was sitting in the office earlier, working out how I should best liberate customers from the Queen’s legs on Friday, when I noticed a little hoody raiding the till. I didn’t go out and unleash hell unto the fiend because the thief was none other than my baby sister Marie. By the time I dashed out of the office, she was stood on a chair, playing the fruit machine. I told the little brat to get off at once and return whatever money she had left to the till. I won’t repeat what she said back to me. Had anyone been witness to it, they would have thought that she was the vile mouthed girl out of the Exorcist, but they would have been wrong. She is not possessed by the Devil, but possessed by my Mother’s nature. Of all of us, little Marie is truly an O’Shea child. After she had stopped shouting, and accusing me of getting in the way of her winning the jackpot, I told her once more to get off the chair and get out of the bar. She then slapped me and told me to f-off or she’d do me. I had no choice but to go and tell on her. I couldn’t find Mom as she was out walking her demon dog, but Curly told me that he had seen Dad go down into the cellar.

As I made my way down the deadly loose stairs that descend into our pit of a cellar, I saw my Father crouched over one of our beer barrels, with a large tube in his hand. It didn’t take me too long to realize that he was putting liquids back into the barrel. Watering the beer down would have been bad enough, but Dad was actually putting old beer, from the slope bucket behind the bar, back into the barrel.

‘DAD!’ I shouted, immediately displaying my utter contempt for what he was doing ‘what do you think you are playing at?’

You would have thought that he would be all coy and embarrassed at being caught doing something so deceitful and disgusting, but then I suppose you don’t know my Dad. Of course he wasn’t remorseful. He tried to pass it off as normal pub practice and then rounded on me for shouting at him.

‘If you get caught doing this, we would be fined massively. I could lose my license!’

‘Everyone does it J. I can’t afford to pay the breweries prices. They’re way over the top. I need to keep the costs down some way or another.’

‘I don’t care Dad. You’ll get caught. You AWLAYS get caught!’

‘I’ve got worse things to worry about that the brewery finding out’

‘What?’

‘Look, never you fucking mind what! I’m doing what is needed to be done to keep this place going! What are you doing, how are you helping? All you do is moan, moan, moan. I bet you’ve come down here to moan about something or someone’

‘No I haven’t’

‘So what do you want?’

‘I came down to ask if you wanted a cup of tea actually’

‘You lying little bastard. I can tell when you’re lying. Stop worrying about what I’m, or anyone else is doing, and be more concerned about yourself! What are you doing useful at the moment?’

‘I’ve been looking over the books’

‘How’s that going to help us’

‘Well it’s what managers do. They look at the books’

‘Managers get people in. Managers get money in! What are you doing to promote Clint’s karaoke competition? It’s the first heat on Sunday and so far I’ve only seen your brother running around putting posters up.’

‘Well I’m doing something much better than that. I’m doing something on Friday that will have this place heaving’

‘What’s that then?’

‘You’ll see’

‘So you’re doing nothing then’

‘I fecking well am! So get back to sticking the old fag ashed beer back into the barrels, and leave me to act like the only professional person working in this place!’

So after putting my father well and truly in his place I stomped back upstairs, just in time to see Marie collect her 150.00 jackpot out of the fruit machine and celebrate by giving me a one finger salute.

A couple of hours later I thought I had a reason to be happy. I should have learnt by now however that fate conspires against me.

At about three o’clock this afternoon we had quite a few people come in for food. The weather had been glorious this morning and so Babbacombe was busy with tourists, but when it started to rain we benefited from some of those people coming into here for shelter. So once again Kung Fu Phil was running around the kitchen like a headless chicken when the food orders started coming in fast. A particular couple, an old pair in their 50’s, ordered sausages in buns. I was busy serving drinks while Clint took orders, Curly brought out the food and Miller slept in bed. I imagine Dad was still in the cellar fiddling the drinks. Anyway, I had to go into the kitchen to get some glasses out of the washer where I was confronted by Kung Fu Phil’s bare ass. Not only was I staring directly as Phil’s saggy, battered love cushions, but I was shocked to find him mincing around the kitchen with a large sausage wedged up his bum like a tail, wagging side to side.

‘What the HELL are you doing Phil?’

Phil dropped the meat and turned around in surprise. Now you would think that he would be all coy and embarrassed at being caught doing something so disgraceful and disgusting, but then I suppose you don’t know our chef. Of course he wasn’t remorseful. He tried to pass it off as normal kitchen practice and then rounded on me for shouting at him.

‘This is what you should expect if you insult a chef’ he shouted, whilst wedging the sausage back between his bottom in defiance.

‘How have you been insulted Phil?’

‘The bitch sent her meal back’

‘Why?’

‘She said it was ‘too cold’ he answered in a mock feminine voice.

‘Well that sounds fair enough’

‘Well if she’d had eaten it when Pubic head brought it out to her, instead of chatting away to lover boy, it would have been warm enough! Well if she’s gonna talk shit, she can fucking eat it too!’

At this point Phil yanked the sausage from his arse and rubbed his tiny knob on it for good measure. He then slapped it back into the bun it had originally came from and shouted for Curly, who promptly appeared.

‘Take this back out to the ol’cow and tell her to enjoy’

I quickly snatched the plate off of Curly and told him he would do no such thing.

It looked like Phil was about to advance on me and try some of his moves, but luckily for him my Dad appeared. ‘What’s all this fucking noise about? All we can hear out there is fucking this, and fucking that. Watch your fucking language will you!’

‘You’re boy ere has just told me that I’m fired’

‘You’ve done what Jacob?’

‘That’s right Dad. I’ve just walked in here and found gay boy there with a customers sausage up his chocolate factory. Of course I’ve fecking sacked him!’

‘You did what Phil?’

‘That’s right. That stupid old bird out there was pulling my plonker, taking the piss and I was showing her what we do to people like her in the trade! So Johnny, is Jacob right? Am I fired?’

To my astonishment Dad yanked the plate out of my hands, handed it to Curly and told him to give it back to the silly old twat. He then apologized to Phil about me, and ordered me out of the kitchen. In case I didn’t make myself clear, he basically told Phil that he was not fired and made me look like a tit. I left with the image of Phil’s smug face violently burnt into my mind.

As I walked out of the kitchen I saw this silver haired lady delighted to have her meal back. I felt sick, but then I didn’t know whether to feel a little better when the dirty old cow started making crude oral sexual gestures with the hotdog, for the benefit of the old man. My stomach however couldn’t take anymore and I quickly took off after my Dad, leaving Clint to man the bar.

‘What the hell was that about Dad? You’ve just made me look like some sort of moron. You should have been as eager to drown the stupid fecker in the dish water as I was’

‘Oh Jacob, you are so inexperienced aren’t you. This is how the trade works. The beer fiddling, the sausage abuse, it’s all part of the trade. You just need to wise up’

‘That’s bullshit Dad. Fucking rubbish. You know what, I’ve had enough. You can stick this place up YOUR ARSE! I’m going’

I then turned my back on my Dad to storm off but he grabbed a tight hold of my shoulder

‘Look Jacob, if you go, we have no licensee. No licensee, no business. No business, no me!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean without the business the family is out of a home!’

‘You said ‘no me’

‘No me, no us, no nothing. That is what I meant! You’re not going to do that to your family are you?’

‘Why didn’t you back me up Dad’ I asked, and then came the truth. It appeared that King Fu Phil has been getting us all of the food on the cheap! From where, Dad doesn’t know, or wouldn’t admit to.

‘We’ve got the Barkers birthday party on Sunday and we wouldn’t find another chef in time for that, or food as cheap. So Jacob, forget the stupid woman out there, and worry about your family instead. We need Sunday to go well for us. I need that money. We’re losing dough left right and centre. I’ve got bills coming out of my ears and there’s hardly any money coming in to keep us above water. Please son, just help me out’

Dad looked so deflated, so downtrodden that I just nudged my head and we left it at that. Dad covered the rest of my shift so that I didn’t have to see the stupid sausage jockey in the kitchen again today.

Unfortunately that wasn’t the last falling out me and my Pappy had, because not an hour ago, we had our final bust up of the day. I found myself working again behind the bar because Miller was AWOL. He was last seen dressed in a suit, heading into town. Curly said he was on the pull and was playing the part of a jilted groom. I would call him utterly pathetic but I know the stupid gimp will con some stupid, legless old tart into sleeping with him, via his routine. So I was stood behind the bar when a big gang of kids came in, looking all of 14 years old. One spotty face twonk came strutting up to the bar and ordered 20 pints for him and the rest of his classroom of friends. I gave him a hearty laugh and then told the lot of’em to piss off. As the mob of bad hair cuts and filthy ragged kids vacated the pub, my Dad appeared and asked where they were going. I laughed and told him how they had tried to order 20 pints for their first round. I momentarily thought my Dad might join in with my laughing, at the nerve of the children but then I should have remembered who I was talking to. He went mad.

‘DO YOU SEE? This is what I mean. You have absolutely no fucking idea how to run a pub do you!’

‘What now? Surly you can’t have expected me to serve them. If the old Bill came in they’d have shut us down in a heartbeat, possibly even arresting me!’

‘Arrest you. Fucking drama Queen. When was the last time a copper came in here? When was the last time any fucker has come in here for a drink on the night time? The Police would have thanked us! We’d be keeping’em off of the streets, keeping them away from annoying nice little old ladies. We’d be doing a fucking public service and making a few hundred quid. You’ve got a hell of a lot to learn. Kids are our best customers. All that money, but no bills to pay, no family to maintain, mortgage or anything. All that lovely money that they just wanna spend on getting pissed! Once they find somewhere that’ll serve them they will keep going every night like it’s Byker fucking Grove! You’ve just lost me a fortune you stupid moron!’

With that I dropped my dish cloth and told my Dad he could close up because I have had enough for today. There is no reasoning with the man! Come the weekend, when we are enjoying the fruits of my master plan, he will be praising me to high Heaven, worshipping me like the business God that I am. Until then I do not wanna hear another word from his stupid mouth!

It was raining today so the pub was dead. Thankfully that meant I didn’t have to put up with Kung Fu Phil crashing around the kitchen in a temper, as Dad told him not to bother coming in today.

I spent all afternoon wishing someone would actually come into the pub and have a drink, but then I wished I hadn’t when the most boring bugger in the whole world came plodding in and super-glued himself to a barstool for over three hours! Miller was in bed, Clint was in town getting some Karaoke CD’s and Curly was down the cash n carry with Dad, so I was bleedin stuck with this train obsessed dwarf, who was as welcomed as diarrhea in the local swimming baths. I felt like a whore. Now I know how a prozzie must feel. There I was, bored shitless, but I still had to smile and pretend I was happy with this dickhead’s company! I hope he never comes back.

Anyway, forget that. After the twatty imp fucked off I decided to kill some time by cleaning the bar. Not a job I should be doing but I was so bored! I began removing some old photos that had been taken before we took over the pub, when I saw my Winky on one of them. I instantly tore it off of the wall and examined it intensely. Her beautiful smile, heavenly blue eyes, made me go all goose bumpily and light at once. It must have been a taken recently because she had the exact same top on as she did on Sunday night. The photo is just of her alone, waving and smiling at whoever is taking the picture. More importantly the photo is of her inside this pub! Is she a local? Does she come in here often? Maybe I will see her again! This is the happiest I have felt since I’ve moved down here.

1825 Hrs

Clint just brought in the local newspaper, The Torquay Express, to show me. On the front page is a grainy black and white CCTV image of a man in a nightclub. Basically the article said that the Police are looking for a flasher who exposed himself in Café Rouge on Sunday night. He is approx 5’7, slim with short brown hair and has a Brummy accent. It then said if you saw him, or have any information about this man, please ring this number: 01803 322 8333.

The reason Clint was showing me the paper was because he claims that it is me in the photograph. Bollocks. They’re going too far with this Hank joke now! The man in the picture could be anyone, and loads of the people in Torquay are from Birmingham, Liverpool, Newcastle and Scotland, so the accent thing proves nothing!

However, I think I might grow a beard, so that I fit in better at the Queens Legs on Friday. I’ll get that scruffy look going, so that I’m totally unrecognizable.

Brum Gunz: Alwright, Cox Boy, how’s it going in da deep south then? I hears off Milla that Hank came out to play last night.

The Bar Steward: Here we go. No Hank did not make an appearance because Hank does not exist!

Brum Gunz: No need to get stressed knobba. Milla told me some well funny stuff that you did! It sounds like you had a wicked night!

The Bar Steward: Wicked?

Brum Gunz: You had a laugh, yeah? Milla said you and him were ripping town apart.

The Bar Steward: I can assure you that my brother and I do not share the same idea of fun! His idea of fun is getting wasted and punching me in the gob.

Brum Gunz: That soundz like my idea of a good night!

The Bar Steward: I LOST A BLOODY TOOTH! He’s lucky I didn’t kick his fat hairy ass all over the nightclub. I would have done it but I had my reputation to think about.

Brum Gunz: Milla said you was sticking ya cock in peoples drinks!

The Bar Steward:Miller is a lying fecker!

Brum Gunz: Ha. Calm down, at least you’ll get a quid off of the tooth fairy.

The Bar Steward: Yeah, and maybe Santa Claus will bring me a new twin for Christmas.

Brum Gunz: Nah, he won’t be doing that mate.

The Bar Steward: Why not?

Brum Gunz: Cos he’s dead.

The Bar Steward: Whose dead?

Brum Gunz: Santa Claus. Father Christmas. The big HO HO HO fella.

The Bar Steward: He doesn’t exist Koopa.

Brum Gunz: Lol, I know that dildo! He doesn’t exist anymore cos he’s dead. He died during WW2.

The Bar Steward: What?

Brum Gunz: He got shot down over Nazi Germany in 1944. Unidentified flying object. Evil bastards those Nazi’s were! That’s why we won the war?

The Bar Steward: Aye?

Brum Gunz: Yeah. Da Allieds dropped leaflets all over Germany saying “Hitler killed Santa, revolt now”, and they did. Hitler shitted himself, knew the game was up and shot himself. War over. We won.

The Bar Steward: Well that’s news to me.

Brum Gunz: I suppose it’s a good thing really though.

The Bar Steward: What? That Santa and Rudolf got shelled outta the sky.

Brum Gunz: Yeah. Some old fat, sweaty bloke breaking into your kid’s bedroom in the middle of the night, giving’em a special present. That doesn’t sound right does it?

The Bar Steward: I guess not.

Brum Gunz: And he’d be dangerous for other reasons!

The Bar Steward: What reasons are those then?

Brum Gunz: Well he’s got the ability to get into anywhere he wants. There isn’t a government or criminal on the planet that wouldn’t want some of that technology! Either they’d try and recruit him or put a cap in his ass themselves. Imagine if Bin Laden took some of his elves hostages. Santa would be forced to into knocking off the US President quicker than the tubby bastard eats his mince pies. He’d have people trying to get him left, right and centre, man! He’d probably be like some badass 80’s action hero, fighting hard to stay alive!

The Bar Steward: So I suppose I won’t be getting a new twin for Christmas then.

Brum Gunz: Fraid not Cox.So, did Milla or Clint manage to dip their dick last night or Curly even?

The Bar Steward: What about me?

Brum Gunz: What about ya?

The Bar Steward: Why didn’t you ask if I pulled anyone?

Brum Gunz: Alwright. Did ya pull any Cox last night?

The Bar Steward: I’m not gay Koopa! In fact I pulled the fittest bird in the whole club. The whole town in fact.

Brum Gunz: Yeah yeah, course you did.

The Bar Steward: I DID! I pulled the most beautiful girl I’ve ever saw and she came back to ours with me!

Brum Gunz: Did anyone else see her?

The Bar Steward:No. But only because Miller fucked off with Bertha the rapist whale and Clint was running after Curly!

Brum Gunz: So no one can back up ya story then.

The Bar Steward: STORY! I’m not lying! It’s true. She was gorgeous and she was all over me!

The Bar Steward:That’s right. I am.Anyway, forget about us. How’s it going with you lot back home? Any sign of the millions you said you were all gonna be making from the new patch?

Brum Gunz: Nah, not yet. Uncle Connor said he is investing all of the extra cash we are making.

The Bar Steward: Investing it into what?

Brum Gunz: He said he is gonna start shipping in drugs himself, directly from Columbia. He’s got a big shipment all lined up. Do you know that Pablo Escobar use to make 20 billion a year! He made so much money, he use to lose about 5 billion a year cos the rats ate it in his lockup. We’re gunna be RICH!

The Bar Steward: Wow, a family to be proud of alright. Look, don’t tell me anymore. The less we know the better; plausible deniability when the police come knocking.

Brum Gunz: The money we’ll be making, the police will be working for us.

The Bar Steward: I’m writing to celebrities and inviting them to our pub for free. They can stop for nothing, eat for nothing and drink for nothing!

Brum Gunz: Why do you wanna be doing that for?

The Bar Steward: Publicity! Look at all of those idiots who go around all the Beatles old haunts in Liverpool. People love celebrity stuff. Once fans know their heroes have been into our establishment, we’ll have’em flocking here!

Brum Gunz: Soundz like another great Cox idea.

The Bar Steward: It is, and this time I’m not running it by Dad, Miller or Clint cos they know feck all!

I was just popping down stairs to get a bedtime glass of coke when I heard a voice shouting somewhere in the darkened bar. I armed myself with a broom and slowly crept towards the noise. The aggravated voice was coming from the office. As I snuck closer, I realised it was Dad on the phone. I kept quiet and listened to the heated conversation he was having.

“I’ve not been avoiding you” … “You said you didn’t need it back for at least six months!” … “There’s no need for that sort of talk” … “Please mate, I just need a little more time than that” … “No! You don’t need to come down here, okay I’ll sort it…I’ll…”

It sounded like the person who was shouting at him on the other side of the phone hung up. Dad just collapsed into my swivel chair and buried his head mournfully into his hands. I didn’t bother going in to ask who he had been talking to; he would never have told me. Dad has always been secretive, especially when he is up to no good, or is in trouble. God I hope this is nothing that will affect the pub!

Curly is in a terrible mood with everyone. He doesn’t think we are taking his attack seriously enough. He got into this sulk because he told me and Clint this morning that he was going to go and report the incident to the Police. We tried to explain that he would just make himself look like a knob and he accused us of being unsupportive. How can stopping your friend from looking like a knob be unsupportive? Miller didn’t help matters when he came rolling into the bar this morning, still in last night’s clothes, and boasted that he too had been raped by Bertha. “Did she do that thumb thing to you too? Nasty eh” he asked Curly. This was too much for our pube headed friend and he stormed off. Miller said he was going to form a support club for the pair of’em.

The pub had a couple of people in today. The weather was scorching hot so Babbacombe had a few tourists enjoying the beautiful sea view and some of those came in here to have something to eat for lunch. In all we did about seven meals, mainly sandwiches and salads but the way Kung Fu Phil was running around the kitchen in a rampant panic, you’d have thought we had the entire British army in for dinner. Dick head. God I hate him!

However, someone I hate even more came in tonight. Harry Barker. Old laughing boy. The ugly little git came sliming up to the bar, all smiles and asked if he could speak with the boss. I tried to assure him that he was speaking to him but his happy grin was swiftly replaced with something all the more threatening and he whispered with a hiss “Go get ye facking Daddy, BOY!” For all I knew he was ready to stab me, I swear his face suddenly looked that evil, so I thought sod it, let Dad deal with his new pal. It turned out that Harry was coming in to TELL Dad that he was having a party in the pub on Sunday night for his daughters 40th. He wants a buffet laid out for the occasion, but he never once allured to whether or not he would be paying for it and Dad didn’t ask either! After Harry had fucked off I asked Dad about that and he basically snapped at me and said we should be grateful for the customers and added that I had done fuck all to get people in so far! I was utterly shocked! My father and brothers have squashed every brilliant idea I have put forward so far. The pub is doing crap because of them! I should have said that to Dad: instead, I just told him that I had something planned for Friday that will get the customers piling in!

So what is this new genius plan? Well earlier Clint was banging on about adverts he was putting in the newspaper and on Torquay FM, for the charity karaoke competition we are unfortunately organizing. I pointed out that nobody ever reads ads in the local paper, and nobody even listens to the local radio station, so it’s all a waste of time and money. I explained to him that you’ve gotta go out and catch new customers. It’s like fishing and I’m gonna reel loads in on Friday night because I’ve got a new Masterplan. I’m going undercover to steal customers from the rival pub down the road. The Queens Legs is always packed and though it doesn’t have the sort of clientele I would prefer, it does have a lively karaoke crowd and I am sure I can get them to come to our pub while Clint’s competition is running.

The Queens Legs look quite nice from outside, but if you go in, it's a right shit hole. It’s full of the sort of people who know their place in life and their place is at the bottom of the social ladder, the underclass. They’ve got no aspirations other than getting through the day anyway they can, until The Queens Legs open and they can all go in for lots of drinks. Not the sort of place you would expect someone respectable like me to venture into but I’m willing to take one for the good of the business. Once the competition is over, I’ll bar the lot of’em, but in the mean time they’ll keep Dad happy and keep him off of my back while I work on my much bigger plans.

For my undercover operation in The Queens Legs, I won’t be able to wear my usual smart attire, because if I do I’ll attract too much attention from the pubs landlord and his thug doormen. I need to blend in with the common people, dress down to their level. Blue jeans, stained t-shirt, crap hair and NO glasses (they’ll give my sophistication away immediately). So I guess I will be going out disguised as Miller. Once I’m in, I’m going to approach people and point out all of the superior facilities The Royal Ship has to offer, compared to the dive they are wasting their time in. I’m sure they’ll be flocking out en masse when they realize what they are missing out on. I mean, it’s not often people of their level get invited to somewhere as classy as my establishment.

Once we closed up last night, I was happy to follow the lads and some of the staff into town. It’s good to show the workers that though I am their Master during opening hours, once the doors are shut, I am in fact one of them (just more likely to do something worthwhile with my life that is).

Being a seaside town, the clubs are less strict in Torquay than in Brum. Here there are no dress codes, so Miller is in his element, wearing his flowery shirt and shorts, sporting big sunglasses under his straw beach hat that hides his long straggly hair. Actually it’s Curly who comes out best. I don’t think he has ever owned a decent set of clothes in his life. Every school has a stinky kid wearing hand me down clothes, and in our class, Curly was that kid. Many a night out back in Brum were spoilt because Curly got turned away for wearing old trainers and crumpled t-shirts but down here the clubs don’t give a shit. Curly can look like a tramp and still have a good night out. I, however, like to look stylish. Unlike Clint, I am not a sheep following the flock. I’m a shepherd, leading the way. While Clint wears ‘trendy’ clothes, and has a quiffy blonde haircut that is currently popular with celebrities, I want to look like a person of power and influence, which of course I am. Disregarding the free and easy dress attitude, I garbed black pants with Suede shoes and wore my prized red velvet shirt, which I nicely topped off with a pencil leather black tie. I still look professional, but with snazz. Looking as slick and as good as I do, it amazes me even more that Miller, the bearded buffoon doing the monkey dance in the middle of the dance floor, is my twin.

We went to a new club last night, Café Rouge and it certainly provided a lot of eye candy. I felt like a boy in a sweet shop and I was taking my time choosing what lolly I wanted to lick. Unfortunately, our Bruce Lee wannabe chef (Phil) wouldn’t leave me alone. He had decided that I was his new best friend and as he was completely incoherently pissed, he wanted me to have a drink with him. I tried to politely say no, informing him that I was above the need of alcohol to have a good time but he just wasn’t having this and soon he had me in one of his customary headlocks. I should have kicked his midget ass right then and there but I didn’t want to spoil my refined clothes with his blood, so I relented and accepted his offer of a drink. Out of nowhere Miller appeared.

“Whay hey! Hank’s coming to the party” he shouted to Clint and Curly and they both answered with a hearty cheer.

As you know, my full name is Jacob Hank Cox. It is very very rare that I drink but on the few occasions that I have, Miller has spread vicious rumours that I am some kind of Jekyll and Hyde character, that once I have a drink, Hank (Hyde) comes out to play. Everybody seems to love this imaginary fella. Three times this morning I was awoken by each of my brothers and Curly, so that they could tell me in explicit detail what Hank apparently did last night.

The lad’s version of last night

Clint said that after a few rounds with Phil, I was on the dance floor, with my expensive tie wrapped around my head, Rambo style, grabbing any bird that crossed my path, trying to force them to do the Latino tango with me to the latest techno beats, while Curly swore blind that I was table surfing, and while riding a table that had a group of fit young lovelies sat around it, I threw up, Exorcist mode, all over their exposed, charming bouncy cleavages, filling’em with my crisp chunks and tangy lager spray. Miller was the last one to wake me up, so that he could inform me that the pair of us had supposedly bullied two small geeky lads into giving us piggy back rides while he and I whipped each other with our beer soaked shirts. He then went on to say that I had found it incredibly funny to run around with my willy hanging out, dipping it into girl’s drinks, asking if they wanted to ‘down it’. According to him this was the final straw and we were all kicked out, so we went back to the Gladrags club (which according to Clint it is NOT a gay club).

What horrible, terrible nonsense! I will admit that some of my memory from last night is somewhat patchy and my head is killing me but I have a perfectly sound explanation for that. I was drugged! Yes, that bastard chef Phil must have spiked my drink. Miller and the lads are obviously having a laugh at my expense. I am sure that they are making it all up. The lewd photos Clint showed me as evidence must have been faked on Photoshop!

My memories of last night

What I do remember is waking up in Gladrags at about 2am, but the night still seemed young for all of the pilled up clubbers dancing like morons around me, with their dumbass glow sticks waving in the air. I felt extremely sick! God knows what the lads did to me while I was out but my prized shirt was soaking wet and my gorgeous black tie was missing.

I was just about to attempt getting my sorry wet arse off of the seat I was slumped in, without vomiting, when through all of the greasy, jumpin, semi naked yoofs writhing about around me, I caught a sight of Heaven, whilst there in Hell.

The usual, dreadful, Club beats had been replaced with cheesy party hits, and Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ started blaring out through all of the speakers. There, in the middle of the dance floor was this girl. She was dancing all alone beneath a bright spotlight. I don’t know if my memory is faulty but it was as if she was moving in slow motion. Her hips were swaying side to side, while her sweet curved bottom slowly grooved up and down to the pulsating beat of the disco classic. I couldn’t help but stare at her. She was absolutely beautiful. Her silky brown hair was parted in the middle, she had moist alluring lips and she was dressed in black skin tight leather trousers and a low slung, boob hugging top. She kept her eyes closed as she danced, completely immersed in the music. I found that, and everything else about her ever so sensual. Suddenly she opened her eyes. They were a summer sky blue and even more beautiful than I had imagined and then they were looking right at me. She gave me a Mona Lisa of a smile and a soft, inviting wink, before closing again. I stood up to act, being led by my over excited pecker no doubt, but my body acted against me and the next memory I have is having me head down da toilet, getting sick all over a stinky floater!

Eventually I remember getting back out to the dance floor but the girl, the winker, was gone. I felt complete and utter despair. I felt even worse when my attention was drawn to an argument near me, only to find a group of guys were surrounding Miller, Clint and Curly.

It turned out that Miller, who had reached his ideal stage of super drunkenness, had gone up to a girl and started getting off with her. She seemed quite happy about it, or so Miller was shouting, but her fiancé, who had had his arm around the girl at the time, was obviously not as pleased. He was a mountain of a fella, and so were all of his friends, a team of rugby players, and they were now threatening to kick the living daylights out of my twin. Don’t ask me why, cos I dunno, but I went over to protect my idiot brother. Clint was already trying to reason with the gang but he was having difficulty doing so while Miller kept shouting ‘let me at’em’ (Scrappy-Doo style), as Curly tried desperately to hold him back. You see there is a male code. If one of your mates gets into a fight against more than one person, you HAVE to join in and help, even if it looks likely you will get battered. It was blindingly obvious to Curly and Clint that if they had to help Miller, they were fucked. I waded over and instead of sticking up for Miller, like Clint was, I told the group that I totally agreed and he was a fecking dickhead. I pointed out what a joke he was, but added that he wasn’t worth the hassle of getting arrested for. What I was saying seemed to work because they started to back off, content with just throwing verbal insults at him. This was obviously more than Miller could bear and he managed to break free from Curly and made a bee line for the boyfriend. Luckily Clint and I both pushed Miller away before he could reach the bloke, and he went flying on his ass. The stupid bastard was too pissed to realize that we were trying to save him and the next thing I know he had sprung back up off of the floor, like a Jack in the box, and punched me square on the chin. I saw stars and then everything went black.

My Winky

When I came to I was flat on my back and my head was killing me worse than ever. People were still dancing around me, oblivious to my state. I opened my eyes and I saw Miller wobbling off, being held up by bleedin Bertha, without a care in the world! The pair of’em disappeared out of the club together and Clint had raced off to see if Curly was okay, as the poor knob had run away in tears, due to seeing his rapist so soon after the event.

I don’t know how long I was lying there on the floor. I was just about ready to give up and go to sleep right there when I experienced a second vision of wonder. The Winker girl was kneeling over me, looking right into my eyes. Yet again she winked and gave me a huge, happy, gorgeous smile. Her eyes shone and melted my heart.

“Are you alright down there?” she asked. Her voice made my blood swirl around inside, I felt like I was being tickled from within.

“Yeah” I answered coolly “I’m just trying some new moves. Vertical dancing is sooo yesterday. It’s for ya gran you know. I’m trying out some New York moves. This is all the rage over there at the moment. Do you wanna try?”

She just laughed. I laughed. I have no idea if she believed me, but it was obviously a good line. She helped me up and asked if I wanted a drink. I should have said no, but I didn’t. She asked, she smiled and I said yes. I would have said yes to anything.

We went to the bar and we had a couple of shots, which we washed down with some alco pops. I could feel the floor beginning to spin again. We couldn’t really talk because a different DJ took to the stage and he had decided to ditch the cheesy pop tunes, in favour of some ultra loud, ultra beats.

Once again the movie in my head of last night begins to miss some scenes as I polished shot, after shot, off. I do remember showing Winky (I can’t, for the life of me remember her name!) some of my moves. She must have been impressed with my Jiving because she started dancing with me and she laughed so warmly and affectionately as I span her around. She felt so good against me. I badly wanted to kiss her but I didn’t want to get it wrong. I didn’t want to scare her away. I tried to wait for the right moment but time was escaping me. Every time I held her close she took my breath away. Every time she smiled at something I did, she took the strength from my legs. I was having the time of my life and I didn’t want to ruin it. However, after one last spin, when she had collapsed into my arms as I dipped her, she lent forward and kissed me. The club didn’t need music because my heart was pounding away like an epic summer anthem.

The next thing I remember is her whisking me outside of the venue and then us being in the back of a taxi together, kissing more! I don’t know who suggested it, it must have been her, but we went back to mine instead of hers. Considering how much of a tip Miller has made of our room, I must have been quite drunk, or just too randy to care. Luckily when we got upstairs to my room, Miller wasn’t there being raped by Bertha. I had the room all to myself and my Winky.

I wanted to make the moment really special. I didn’t just want a quick fumble. I wanted her to remember me for being the best she ever had. I decided I would be dead sexy and copy a scene I had seen in a movie. I turned on the shower and invited her to join me. She just laid on the bed in a fit of drunken giggles and egged me on. Before I knew it, I was humming the song from ‘The Full Monty’ and I was doing my best attempt at a strip tease. I got down to my pants and began wiggling my bum, sliding up and down the en-suite door seductively. The more she clapped and laughed, the worse I behaved. Eventually I was completely naked and I was wiggling my bits and bobs like tassels. Oh the horror. I can’t believe I did that! Maybe I was Hank! I have a bottom that looks like it’s got a hamster clenched between its buttocks. It’s so terribly fluffy. What on Earth could she had thought. Obviously in my drunken, horny state, I gave no thought to that. I jumped into the shower, ready to invite her in but then I remembered that it was on the blink. It blasted skin peeling hot one moment, and frost biting cold another. I was hopping in and out like a bloody Morris dancer. I kept shouting for her to wait a minute while I got it sorted but eventually I gave up and decided it was time to give her the ride of her life.

I stepped back into the bedroom and she was spread eagled on the bed. I crawled on top of her and gently whispered “Are we about to make love my sweet?”, but she didn’t answer, she was out cold, fast asleep (or after seeing my hamster, pretending to be asleep?)

I must have passed out next to her because the next thing I know I am in bed, under the blanket, being woken up by Curly.

What happened to Winky? Why did she sneak off without saying goodbye? Was she embarrassed? Regretful? Ashamed? Was she even real? Maybe after I passed out from all my drinking with Phil, the lads put me in a taxis home and I dreamt the whole thing?

My Garden of Eden is being besmirched. No wonder God took such vengeance out on Adam and Eve when they desecrated the wonder that he had given them. I have offered paradise to my family. I told them that it is all there for the taking but they must not, under any circumstance, eat from the KARAOKE tree! So that is exactly what the bastards have done! Tonight I watched as the first weedy thorns crept into my wonderland, digging their evil roots deep into my scarred grounds. Dicky and Elaine were back, and they had with them more freaks from their musical horde of Hell! I managed to vanquish a band of foul singing demons when I heard them swearing at the bar. I quickly tried to march them out, but the Devil, my Father, let fly his terrible wrath and they were permitted their place in my Kingdom. I sense a battle of biblical proportions is on the horizon. Good versus Evil. The Devil is as powerful as I, so I must use all of my cunning to smite him once and for all!

If that wasn’t bad enough, another rabble of yokel locals came bursting through our doors an hour before closing. If this group of grubby, bloated, cackling scum had a theme tune, it would be the Dueling Banjos. At first they kept themselves to themselves. They came to the bar, gruffly demanded their drinks without so much as a please or a courteous smile and then huddled in a dark corner. The group consisted of about thirteen men and seven women, whose ages ranged from teens to O.A.P’s. Most of the men either looked obese or built like a brick shit house. The women looked like painfully thin witches, with soulless, dead black eyes. I could see them all sizing us up. Snarling. Laughing. Plotting. I have seen this behaviour before.

Suddenly the only small man in the group stood up. He had only two yellow buck teeth that protruded over his lower lip, and his grey skin blended with his horrible, greasy grey hair. He came walking towards me and Dad with the biggest, gummy smile on his face and positioned himself between us two. He smelled worse than the hairy open drain that Curly’s face was forced into last night.

“Ma name’s Arry, and those folk over there are me family. You’re new in town so I’d like to introduce us. We’re the Barkers. We’re a big family in these ere parts. We can trace our lot way back over 15 generations. Everyone knows us around this town.”

Harry necked his pint of bitter and slammed it onto the bar. Dad gave him a nervous grin and told Curly to top his glass up.

“As I said. We’re well known around ere and we could have this place packed in no time”

My father was definitely listening. As Harry slammed down his second empty pint glass, Dad personally refilled it, at no charge, and asked how he could do that.

“We have a big family, and we have lots of friends. It wouldn’t take much to encourage them to drink here”

I take it all back! Give me the karaoke freaks! Please don’t send in the Hells Angels

“All we would ask for…” Here we go “is that we, the family, gets mates rates on all of our drinks”

Bingo! I knew it and I knew what was coming next, a threat delivered with a smile.

“And what if we couldn’t offer mates’ rates” I asked.

For a second his weasely smile dropped to flash me a hate filled glare before turning his head back to my father with a sickly smirk. “We all wanna be friends ere don’t we? It’s too small of a town to be falling out” He playfully, with an undercurrent of intimidating menace, slapped my father on the cheek and then shook his face. “Whadda you say then?”

Dad gave me a look and I shook my eyes left to right as feverously as possible. No, tell him NO! I would have told him so myself, but since my Dad wants to play Boss, well then he can deal with the local wannabe mafia.

“That sounds like a great idea” my father said.

The ghastly little man shook my Dad’s hand and asked for a bottle of our finest champagne, as a token of our new friendship. My father duly obliged. The nasty troll then returned to the rest of the ghouls and they welcomed back their champion warrior with a thunderous round of applause. The battle had been won without a drop of blood. The invaders had come into our castle and my Dad had bent over.

They left not long after that, cheerfully letting us know that they would be back…soon.

I really don’t know what will be worse. The Barkers trying to take control of the pub, or my mother finding out and launching her attack on them. If she calls for back up from our Irish family in Brum, then I’m just gonna hide in the nearest bomb shelter!

I am starting to have grave concerns about Torquay; it might not be the delightful haven that I believed it to be. I hope that the English Riviera isn’t like dog turd in a fancy chocolate wrapping. It looks a treat but actually it’s shit!

I should leave right now! I should pack my bags and leave the lot of’em! Why won’t they listen to me! I have vision! I am the one with the key to the fecking vault! MADDNESS!

At 3 o’clock Miller, Clint, Dad (Curly was still too traumatized to come downstairs, he feared it would spark more flashbacks) and myself were seated at my round table. I didn’t want to rain on my brother’s idea’s too quickly, so I thought I would let them go first, before I dazzled everyone with my amazing plans.

Miller went first. I don’t know if he was being serious but he looked very impressed with himself. He had two ideas.

Idea No. 1

We should go around all the local AA meetings and all of the homeless shelters and hand out two-for-one vouchers to the winos. They love drink, so why shouldn’t they buy it here. Brilliantly simple he proclaimed.

Worryingly Dad didn’t slam this idea; he just kinda nodded his head and gestured for Miller’s second idea.

Idea No. 2

Let’s hire prostitutes as barmaids.

He didn’t back this up with any reasoning. He thought it was self-explanatory. Fortunately I saw my Dad drop his head into his hands in despair so, no, the lunatics weren’t running the asylum just yet. Next it was Clint’s turn.

He suggested a charity event. He said this would be a great way to build the reputation of the pub and more importantly get us free, positive publicity with the local newspaper and radio station. He said we should take advantage of how popular Karaoke was in the pub and make a big competition out of it. It would appeal not only to locals, but also to karaoke fans across the bay. We would make it known that every Saturday and Sunday night we would be entering the best singers into our major, big prize, karaoke competition, all in aid of a good cause. We’ll tell everyone that we will judge not only on performance but also on public appreciation, which would mean that participants would bring their friends and family along to cheer them on, thinking that it will improve their chances of getting into the final. Each week we’ll put virtually everyone through. The ones we don’t put through, we’ll tell them to come back and try again next week. Eventually we would end up with a massive final, where the pub would be rammed solid! We would have to offer a cash prize of about 200 -500 quid but we’ll make a fortune over the bar. We would pick a local charity, like the hospital or something and we would tell everyone who makes it into the final that they need to get sponsored, and that would be the cash that we donate. To make it extra special, we could make the final a big fancy dress event, like Stars in their Eyes.

Just like Miller, Clint seemed very impressed with himself and he waited to hear what the rest of us thought. Dad was just about to say something but I wanted to spare my little brother the humiliation of being told that his idea was utter crap. Instead I thought I would wade in with my own superior plans. THE MASTERPLAN. I handed everyone at the table the proposal I had prepared.

1. Triple the price of all our drinks.2. Triple the price of all our food.3. Change the name of the pub to THE OFFICE4. Charge £50 entry, or £1,000 annual membership.5. Do not refer to business as ‘a pub’; it is an ‘establishment’.6. All staff members must wear a suit.7. Sack the door staff. They won’t be needed.8. Sack Miller. He definitely won’t be needed.9. Sack Bertha. She may rape again.

Dad, Miller and Clint looked at me in amazement. I knew their feeble little minds wouldn’t understand what I was pitching, so I spelt it out very simply for them. We overprice everything. Food, drink, the lot. Hell, maybe even charge an entry fee to the shitter. I am going to make this place classy. By doing all of this the upper classes will know that none of the undesirable common people will be able to tarnish our establishment with their grubby presence. This means the rich won’t have to worry about the underclasses bothering them. I’ll make this a meeting place for people on the council, yacht owners, land owners etc. They all have more money than sense. If we do this now, we will be millionaires this time next year.

I stood before my family and awaited praise. I should have known I wouldn’t get it, or more to the point, they didn’t get it. They gobbed their poisonous venom all over my magnificent MASTERPLAN. They said it was ridiculous, that it was an insane idea, that I was an idiot. I felt like Galileo telling his unenlightened peers that the Earth was not flat. I am too far ahead of my time. I have a greatness that ordinary people like my father and brothers just don’t comprehend. I pleaded with them to understand, and I tried to explain it even simpler. Bring in the rich people, make lots of money, but my father was having none of it. He proclaimed that it was Clint’s idea; the idea that would beg the dregs on society to descend on my beautiful kingdom and kill me slowly with their vulgar songs sung badly, that was the brilliant idea, a plan that might just save us all! HA! The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and I’m trapped in it.

Dad finished the meeting by saying that our game plan has been decided. He would pour the last of his resources into promoting the event. It was a tremendous gamble and it was now our job to make sure the odds are stacked in our favour.

“Make sure we don’t lose our shirts” he warned “because you have no idea what will happen to us all if that happens”

I woke up this morning and I thought I was dreaming. Curly was stood at the foot of my bed with his fists clenched and his face white. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic like a rabbit that sensed danger.

“Curly, what the fuck are you doing waking me up so early!” I angrily shouted at him, pointing out that it was only 10 o’clock.

At first he didn’t answer. He looked panicked, scared. Once I had come to my senses and sat up (trying to conceal my enormous morning glory) asked him again what the matter was. This time he replied. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, so I asked him again and I told him to speak louder.

“I was raped” he muttered

“What?”

“I WAS RAPED!”

“What?” “Where?” “When?” “How?”

Curly rushed over to my side and grabbed a hold of my arm, forcefully dragging me from my bed. Before I had a chance to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I was being hurled down the corridor that separated all of our rooms and inside Curly’s stinky cesspit. He let go of me and walked beside his own bed, furiously pointing at the centre of it, which had caved in.

“What are you pointing at? Just tell me what has happened”

Since I have the misfortune to share a room with Miller and Clint, they had borne witness to this strange spectacle and the pair had followed us to the scene of the apparent crime. The three of us stood in Curly’s doorway, waiting for an answer. Slowly, he began to talk.

“After you went to bed last night, me and Bertha continued to have a few jars”

“I hope you paid for those”

“YES!”

“Alright, just checking no other crimes, such as theft, took place last night.”

“Well me and Bertha started drinking spirits after we polished off a few pints, and then we moved onto slammers, before having the last drink I remember drinking with her, which was that bottle of Absinthe that Miller brought back from Ibiza with him last year. The next thing I know I’m waking up completely naked and (sob) she’s lying next to me with no clothes on!”

The image of the rotund, sweaty Bertha in her birthday suit instantly made me and my brothers gasp in unison!

“But it got worse” Curly continued, barely able to talk as he hyperventilated “I started to get flashbacks. I can see her now, in my mind, on top of me. It hurts. OH GOD NO! I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER! She has a hold of my head and…” momentarily he couldn’t talk, so slowly he made a motion of his head being pushed downwards. “I almost choked”

The picture he painted for us caused Clint to throw up on the spot. The thought of Curly’s forced expedition into the black, slippery Chasm of Doom was too much for my baby brother’s hungover, beer-gurgling belly to handle.

“Nope” Miller answered “You’ve just been fucked by a fatty. Classic case”

“What are you on about, dumbass?” I asked Miller

“That is what all fat bastards do. That is how they get da sex. It’s the circle of life. Dick hunters. They go out late; when they know that the drink is making us fellas do bad things. I swear ta God it’s true. Many a nights I’ve been at a bar, with me pint in my hand and the little amber fucker begins to talk to ya. Whispering in your ear. ‘Go on, shag her, it’s a great idea. I bet she’ll take it up the choc shop’ and so on. Drink is a bastard for playing tricks on you and before you know it, you’ve agreed with your tasty friend that it would indeed be a fine idea to ride that mucky bouncy castle like a wild pony”

“It’s rape MILLER!” Curly protested

“Lol. The beer made you do it. Not her! She just didn’t stop you! Don’t worry mate. Any hole’s a goal. Anyway, we all love a fatty once in a while, you’ve got so much more choice with all of those folds”

On that note I had to leave the room. I left it to Clint to convince Curly not to get the police involved, while Miller had decided that he was off to track Bertha down, so he could get raped too!

I’m going downstairs now to set my presentation up for the meeting this afternoon. This ship needs steering away from the iceberg dead ahead.

Great leaders are not always popular leaders. Tough decisions sometimes need to be made and they don’t always endear you to your countrymen, but what the peasants don’t realize is that we make those decisions to give them better lives. Tonight I learnt what it must have felt like for Maggie Thatcher being in office. People just don’t understand the plans of a superior mind.

It was 10pm and as Bertie had warned, a crowd of Karaoke loving losers came stomping up towards the entrance, singing their heads off (badly), all screaming with excitement about what terrible song they wanted to murder first. There must have been about forty of the feckers at least. Unfortunately this drunken rabble had forgotten all about their plan to boycott the pub so I ran as fast as possible to get to them before they even stepped foot into my palace and informed them loud and clearly that I was in charge now and Karaoke was cancelled FOREVER! For the uproar that greeted me, you would have thought I had shat on their babies’s heads. Clint came running up to me and asked what the hell I was doing. I told him to feck off and not to question me in front of the lower classes. The little shit then ran off upstairs to my parents’ bedroom and told my father what I had done.

I was sitting at the bar, quite pleased at the disaster I had just averted when my father came racing down stairs in his underwear, bawling his head off at me, in front of everyone! He has absolutely no idea how to run a business and clearly demonstrated that tonight! I tried to explain that by loosing a few tawdry customers, you will actually gain a lot more elegant clients. Once the word is out that I have swept away the filth, the decent fringes of society will come pouring in, bringing with them all of their lovely money. Did he listen, no! Instead he threw on a coat and without a shred of dignity, chased after the tacky posse of wannabe singers down the road. Ten minutes later he came back with a bald headed hunchback with a demented smile and a woman the size of a child whose eyes and teeth looked as if they were trying to escape from her hideously ugly face. Before you could say Jim’ll fix it, Clint had manned the karaoke set the previous landlord had left behind and the gruesome twosome were on the stage, introducing themselves as Dicky and Elaine, then launching into ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams. I almost cried as I realized that I would no longer be able to listen to that beautiful song in the same way ever again.

I was so angry that I was almost tempted to have a pint of lager but I took a hold of myself and remembered that I was not a part of the underclass.

Tonight didn’t end on a completely sour note however. After most of the staff had left, me and Curly were having a laugh with the new digital camera my Dad bought yesterday for the pub. We were taking pictures of each other pulling karate poses, basically taking the piss out of the chef who thinks he is something he isn’t. Miller tried to join in but he was so drunk he smacked Curly right in the face and knocked him spark out. Luckily for Curly our barmaid Bertha knew first aid and she made sure he was alright.

I’ve come to bed now so that I can begin work on my presentation for tomorrow’s meeting. Miller’s gone out with Clint down town and I’ve left a sozzled Curly downstairs with Bertha.

Dad should be French. He gives up too easily. He spends too much time feeling sorry for himself, and not enough time doing anything useful. He woke me up early this morning at 10am to tell me that he was calling a critical family meeting this afternoon (secret from Mom of course) at 1 o’clock, because he had something very important to discuss with all of the family. Dad of course didn’t really have the authority to call meetings about my business but I thought I would indulge him; he might surprise me and have something useful to say.

“Last night I learnt new information which caused me to shit my pants”. Well done Dad, what a great way to start a business conference, I should use that line when I’m in Parliament in a few years. He went on to explain to Miller, Clint and Curly what the late Bertie and Antony had told me and him before they killed each other last night (basically that the pub makes fuck all money).

“I’ve got enough dough to keep this place running for roughly a month. If it isn’t making any money by the end of that period, then we’re fucked. We’re gonna lose the business, we’re gonna lose the roof over our heads and I’m gonna lose….well we’re all going to lose our shot at the good life. What I want from you lot are ideas to get the punters and the money rolling in”

I tried to tell Dad that he was worrying for no reason, that I had a Masterplan but he wasn’t having any of it. He said that he wanted us all to go off and have a good, long, hard think. He has called another meeting (yet again he stressed, no word to Mom about it) for 3 o’clock tomorrow, where he wants to hear what we have come up with. He said he will be picking only one idea and then we all must concentrate our combined efforts on it. Well if it makes the Umpa Loompas feel like they are contributing, then I suppose it will make for a happier chocolate factory, but I’m sure everyone will see that I am the big Willy Wonka here!

Thank you for your previous e-message. You will be glad to learn that my first night was a magnificent success. We had to open up early because of the queue of locals waiting to get in. We stayed rammed all night and my people just didn’t want to leave when I rung the bell for last orders. I must confess that I didn’t get to pull too many pints because clients kept taking me aside to tell me how fantastic the pub was now that I have taken over (and also the ladies were more interested in me pulling them, wink wink J).

Please do let the rest of the family in Brum know that we are all very happy here in Torquay and that we are doing fabulously.

Torquay is wicked man. You shud see the tits on the sticks. The birds ere are well fit and PROPER E Z!!!! I’ve just had to kick one outta me bed of dirty luvvv. Though I did the gentleman thing and let her stay for breakfast (I gave her a double portion of YES! Protein special)

Hope the sun is still shining brightly on the O’SHEA Empire. Catch ya latta

The pub is shocka mate! Gaycob doesn’t have a Scooby-doo what he’s doing. We had fuck all people in the pub, except for loads of staff who spent the night beating up J (a good night in the end then).

I think I’m gonna have to step in and help brown fingers out because I don’t wanna come back to Brum just yet. It wouldn’t be fair on the birds down here, I’ve gotta give’em all a fair chance of a go don’t I.

Right, I’ve got some serious sleeping to catch up on. Another big night ahead of me! Me luv-gun got some hussies in a barrel to shoot.

Miller is a fecking LIAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He is just jealous that I am in charge of a business that is going to bring me wealth, respect and Dolly birds by the barrel load and he is just gonna be my work bitch, standing around fingering his bum, for the rest of his sad little life. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is going down town, pretending to me? In order to pick up the little whores he probably pays for his 1 second fumbles!!!!

OH OH OH, BY THE WAY, that ‘woman’ he kicked out of his bed of dirty love (which IS dirty b’cos the amount of times he has pissed, shit and gotten sick on his one and only bed sheet and NOT put it in the wash is disgusting) was a MAN! No lie. He got ‘her’ from a gay bar!

Last night, after I DID wave off a conga line of locals, who left our establishment deliriously happy, I was all ready to go bed but the lads begged me to go out with them. They said they wanted to check out the nightclubs down town. I didn’t really see the point when we have the best place in Torquay but Clint and Miller insisted so I relented. It never hurts to spy on the competition. Curly stayed in though. He said he was worn out, knackered. HA. Lightweight! He wouldn’t know hard work if it smacked him in the face. Well I’ll soon see to that.

Anyway, if I was going into town, I wanted to look the bomb, so I told the lads that they shouldn’t wait for me and I would catch up with them. I eventually tracked them down in a harbourside club called Gladrags.

After a hard days work, I thought it was time to reap my rewards, but I’ll admit I did give myself a scare. I didn’t wanna find Clint or Miller straight away because they would just cramp my style. I thought I’d find’em when I had a couple of bitches hanging off my arms, so I propped myself up at the bar, and went into PULL mode. I acted aloof, cool, like a cucumber. I checked out the room and looked for the juiciest rumps that I deserve (no slops for my dinner plate). When I found the honeys that my Bee wanted to sample, I gave them my best come to bed stare but NOTHING! In fact one girl came up to me, all in me face, asking what the hell I was looking at. I said an angel (all slick like) but before I could finish my line I swear she was gonna punch me, but her offensively ugly friend pulled her away and had the nerve to call me a weirdo, when they were the ones coming up to me acting all violent.

I should have clicked then, but as you can imagine, I was worn out from doing all the work in the pub earlier. I finally realized that something was up when I changed tactics and decided just to introduce myself to some girls and told’em that I was the new licensee of the Royal Ships in Babbacombe. I didn’t want to do that originally because I would have had less respect when they threw themselves at me but not a dicky bird of interest. As the last dyke turned her back on me laughing, it finally dawned on me. Muff munchers.

It must have been a gay bar. Only women who REALLY hate men, would be able to resist a man of my status now. I should have clicked straight away but I didn’t (Glad = happy and an old word for happy is Gay). There weren’t any signs saying what sort of place it was but after so many rejections, it’s obvious. Phew. Lol. However, in hindsight I am appalled. The club is obviously trying to trick fit young men like me in. Surely that’s illegal. I could have got bummed in the toilets!

Just a little earlier in the night I must admit that I was a wee bit jealous when I saw Clint throwing some shapes on the dance floor with two blonde stunners all over him. I also saw Miller getting it on with a right ginger minger. At first I couldn’t understand it. I did the look, the pose, the talk, and Clint did none of that and pulled loads. However, once I had my moment of clarity, I raced over to save Clint (fuck Miller) from the winky fiddlers, but he wasn’t having any of it. That’s the evil of drink for you and that is why you’ll never see me embarrassing myself, I’m 100% teetotal. I’m just a dealer of the nectar poison. I don’t need alcohol to have a good time.

So Miller and Clint pulled a couple of guys. HA HA HA HA HA

I couldn’t sleep in my room though because the pair were ‘entertaining’ in their adjacent beds. Unfortunately I ended up kipping at the foot of me Mom and Dads bed, but it was better than getting some stray shit in me eye.

Soundz like u had an interesting night, I’ll have ta give Milla a bell and find out what he’s playing at!

Milla said your staff are disrespecting you. You didn’t comment. You can’t be aving that. No fookin way! You gunna av ta man up! You need to handle ya staff like a strict parent. Bring out the naughty stick. A broom with 6 inch nails through the top of it is my favourite. Smack’em a few times when they play up and they’ll soon behave. Oh but you have to threaten to smack their folks too if they run crying to the law. OR do u want me to come down and deal with’em?

Thank you for your concern but it isn’t needed. Once more Miller is lying. Me and the boys on the door got along great. Again, Miller was jealous. Me and the door staff had a good laugh at Millers expense. If any of them dare have the balls of steel to even give me an off look, I’d soon slap’em down to size.

Don’t bother ringing Miller up about any of the things that I have told you, he’ll just lie his head off as usual. Also, don’t ring Clint, it would just embarrass him.

If there is a God, then he is testing me! Or maybe it’s the Devil. Most of my lot are on a one way ticket to his fiery parlour, so perhaps they’re trying to drag me along for the ride. Either way, God or the Devil, whichever, they’re both fuckers!

This evening started off with me feeling really good about the night ahead. I had managed to get a couple of hours shut eye before I started, though it was a struggle since I had to constantly ignore Clint banging on my door, demanding that I should be downstairs helping everyone. I generally hold my younger brother in higher esteem compared to the rest of the family but he has been a right pain in the arse today. He should have known not to disturb me on account of how much I had to do tonight!

When I got up I made sure I looked my best. I wore a really slick black shirt, grey pants and a silver tie with a tribal symbol of power on it. I put aside my contact lenses in favour of my glasses and I also gelled down my trendy cropped spiky hair into a flat side parting. I wanted to replace my youthful good looks with a mature image that projected serious management. I want people to look at me and know instantly that I am the main man in charge.

Already I am proving myself as a managerial maestro as my delegation of jobs to Dad, Mom, Clint, Curly and Marie proved fantastically successful in turning my pub from a dirty, unkempt mess into a smart looking establishment ready to wine and dine the most elite members of society that the English Riviera has to offer.

All the staff was accounted for and ready at their stations:

One chef in the kitchen and Clint and Curly ready to take orders. (Dad totally ignored my better judgment and went for cheese burgers, chips, hot dogs, pizzas, the typical common shit that usually gets spat on and arse wiped in takeaways around the country)One DJ playing carefully selected vintage records, as vetted by moi Three doormen at the entranceFour bar staff ready to pour drinks (Bertha, Father Quinn, Dad and Miller)And myself poised ready to steer the Royal Ship public house to Treasure Island.

I left it to Dad to open the doors because I had one last important task to complete before I could let the people see their Saviour. Mother. I went upstairs and sat down with Mom in her bedroom and reminded her of a few things.

1. We weren’t in Birmingham anymore.2. Nobody knows who you are. You do not need to uphold the O’Shea reputation. You’re just a nice ol’ Irish woman. 3. You don’t have to look like you’re going to put someone in hospital. Smile, be happy.4. If someone looks at you, it doesn’t mean they’re asking for it.5. If someone bumps into you, it doesn’t mean they’re asking for it.6. If someone swears in your presence, it doesn’t mean they’re asking for it.7. Do not threaten anyone you feel are being disrespectful. Come to me first. If someone is acting unpleasantly, I will address them. If that fails to fix the problem, then I will alert the door staff who will calmly get the troublesome individual to vacate the premise in a reasonable manner.8. This is a new start for the whole family. THIS is the family business now. It is a nice business. We like people. We want people to like us. Fear is not the way. BE NICE.

Mom actually surprised me with her tranquil answer. In her wispy small voice she said she had no intention of causing any trouble. She was just as eager to carve out a new peaceful life for the family. She did however assure me that a Rottweiler can never entirely lose its bite, but as long as no one antagonizes her, or her family, in an obviously threatening manner, then she would be happy to allow the door staff to do their job. This, the pub, is her retirement. With that she said she was knackered from all of the tidying she had done today and she was going to stay in her room and watch television. She wished me luck and kissed me on the forehead. At first I felt a bit pissed off that she weren’t going to come down to witness my triumphant opening night but then it dawned on me that she had meant every word about turning over a new leaf but knew that it wouldn’t be easy for her, so she’d decided to stay out of the way. Bless’er, she can be good when she wants to be.

With Mom sorted it was time to make my grand entrance. I slowly made my way down the spiral stairs, trying to keep the big grin off of my face. I wanted to look cool, not gimpy. I stood in front of the side door that would take me into the main bar. I could hear a lot of noise from the other side of it. Naturally; I expected it would be packed by then. I took a deep breath. I was really excited and that bloody grin just wouldn’t go away. Oh fuck it, I was happy. I straightened my tie, ran my fingers through my hair and opened the door. It was manic!

There were loads of excitable voices bouncing around the bar; however it was a shame that it was all coming from our lot and nobody else. From first glance it appeared that there were no customers at all inside of the pub. As I had stepped into the room I was almost knocked over by a trolley. My DJ was being wheeled out of the pub and into the back of an ambulance. His hair was all singed and smoking and his skin was covered in dark patches of painful looking scorched skin, bubbling from his arms and face.

“I’m gunna facking sue ya all, ye BASTARDS!!!” he screamed in pitched agony as he went by. It was obvious that his one finger salute and vicious anger was specifically aimed squarely at Miller, who wasn’t paying him any attention.

I ran over to Curly and asked him what the hell had happened. He said that Miller was making everyone a round of flaming Sambuca’s and just as the DJ was about to douse his flame, Miller had gotten all excited about something and threw his arms up into the air. Next thing you know, the flaming drink has gone all over the DJ and his arm was all on fire.

“I tried to put it out” Miller shouted over to me. It was then that I noticed that we did have some customers, two old men with whom Miller was deep in conversation with at the other end of the bar.

“You threw YOUR glass of Sambuca over him and his HEAD CAUGHT ON FIRE!!!” Curly shouted back to him.

Again without looking at either of us Miller argued that he instinctively threw the first liquid he could get his hands on. I was fucking livid! Had anyone paid for these drinks? No, it appeared not. We’re not likely to be making any money if we are giving drinks away. ARGH! I would have set Miller on fire but he was talking to my only customers and I wanted to present a dignified front. I was dreading what my brother could be saying to them so I quickly made my way over to introduce myself.

“All I’m saying” I heard Miller saying to the two old men as I approached the trio, “is that the best way to deal with the paedophile problem is to wean the fuckers off kids by introducing them to midgets”Oh shit, I knew I should have just given Miller a few quid and told him to fuck off for the night. I was just about to barge Miller out of the way when he caught sight of Clint and ran off after him. It wasn’t appropriate behaviour but I was just glad that he had fecked off. I then introduced myself to the two old fella’s and they introduced themselves as Bertie and Antony. They were proper Devonshire boys and I just about understood what they were banging on about. It appears that they were best friends and had known each other for as long as they could remember. They had grown up together, even gone to war in France together and had drunk in this pub, The Royal Ship, together for over 60 years. A right gay pair I thought.

I asked the two coffin dodgers if they knew why the pub was so quiet. At this point my Dad had come in from talking to the bouncers outside and had joined in with our conversation. Bertie said that the locals were boycotting the pub to make the brewery suffer. He said that everyone loved the previous landlord and objected to the way that he had been forced out by the brewery which had penalized him too heavily for buying in drinks that weren’t theirs. Because of the fines he had to sell up as he couldn’t afford to keep the business going.

At this point my Dad’s gummy happy face crumbled. He thought that the pub was quiet because people must have mistakenly thought that it wasn’t open tonight.

Antony, old shit-ya-pants number two, obviously took no heed of my father’s crest fallen mug because he carried on exactly where Bertie left off. He laughed that the boycott wouldn’t make much difference anyway. He said that in the 60’s and 70’s, loads of hotels were converted to pubs because Torquay was swamped by grockles (tourists), you couldn’t move. However, over the last 20 years the number of people visiting the Bay had dropped drastically because everyone goes abroad nowadays. So down our street alone we have over ten pubs fighting for the scraps of holiday makers who do manage to make their way to the South West.

Stuttering, with blind panic in his eyes, my father pulled himself up from his stool and argued that this couldn’t possibly be right. He said how he had been to visit the pub on numerous, separate occasions, over the last few months and it was always rammed packed. Bertie bet my father that it was always on a weekend, around 10 o’clock at night, when he visited.“It was the only time Harold (the previous landlord) could see me” he answered.Of course it was, Antony laughed. It appears that every Saturday and Sunday, for about one hour, the pub does indeed become busy with the bar crawl crowd. They come in for karaoke (which Bertie and Antony love by the way), drink their one round and then piss off to the next pub along.

I could see that this news caused my whitened-face father to collapse back down on his stool. His breath had become raspy and short and I thought he was about to keel over. He was muttering something about money, but to himself rather than anyone else who could hear. I tried to cheer him up by explaining that I’ll get this place thriving but for some reason it didn’t seem to make him look any better (he mustn’t have heard me), but the two old farts just laughed again. Apparently the pub has had over 10 new landlords in the past 10 years. The pair had seen it all apparently, all different ideas tried but I assured them they’ve not yet seen me. They then started to declare their undying loyalty, that they weren’t bothered what everyone else was up to because we could always count on their custom. To be honest I didn’t catch much else what they said because Miller had reappeared, on the wrong side of the bar, acting suspiciously. I was just about to ask what he was doing when Bertha said that the beer wasn’t coming through. It appeared that neither her, nor Father Quinn, knew how to change a barrel and my Dad, who looked like he had been bashed around the head with an iron bar, was not responding to anyone. In the end I decided to just sort it myself. With everyone else making a complete tit up of everything, the only person I could trust to get the job done right was me.

After giving myself a sticky beer shower, when trying to change an obviously faulty barrel, I came back upstairs to the sounds of mayhem. Maybe the bar crawl crowd that Bertie mentioned was in. Nope!

“I saw’t first!”

“Givvy’ere. I saw’t it on da bar first. Ye gurt big robbin bastard!”

“Well I ad it first, so tuff shit Bertie”

Bertie and Antony were rolling around on the floor. Antony was holding something tight to his chest and Bertie was beating down on him with his hands clasped together in a tight club. No matter how hard Bert pummeled Antony’s face, crunching and cracking the old fellas nose with every blow, Antony refused to let go of whatever he was desperately holding onto.

To my right I could hear heavy laughter. Miller was sat in a corner seat with Clint, laughing his head off at the fighting old pair.

I was momentarily stunned but I quickly came to my senses and knew what to do. I shouted to Curly to fucking do something quick. So he ran over to separate the battling ol’twosome but was greeting with a bloody smack to the hooter and a swift kick to the knackers. Obviously Bert still remembered his war training. Bert was now towering over Antony, who was still rolling around on the floor, trying to dodge his friends stamping feet.

“Fuck ya, yer ol’Jerry cock cuddler” Ant barked back and he launched himself up onto Bertie and sunk his false gnashers right into his droopy old balls. I swear I heard a pop sound. As Bertie doubled over and collapsed onto the floor, Antony continued his fearsome comeback. He lifted his heavy glass handled beer mug off of the bar and struck it down with all his force onto Berties crown. Hundreds of shards of glass splintered and embedded themselves gruesomely into his skull. Just as Antony was about to strike a second devastating blow, Bertie came roaring back to life and sprung at his adversary, knocking him onto his back. Bertie quickly grabbed hold of Antony’s arm and placed it over the top of two over turned stools and stamped his foot down upon it with all of his power, snapping it, with a loud horrible crack, like a twig. As Ant rolled around the floor, cradling his floppy wrinkly limb, Bert crouched down and picked up what Antony had finally dropped. A scratch card.

Then, unbeknown to Bert, Ant silently rose up behind him and launched over his shoulder, grabbing hold of Berts hand, which was proudly and victoriously clutching the scratch card, and with one almighty snap of his awesome choppers, he chomped down on Berts fingers, separating them from the knuckles.

“Geezus, grab him! He’s covering the wall in blood” I shouted to Curly but it was futile asking him to do anything as he was still lounging about on the floor in an idiotic daze, cupping his balls. What a fookin loser, getting beaten up by two geriatrics, typical Curly. The rest were just as hopeless. Clint had ran off for some reason, Miller was still in his corner in fecking hysterics and Dad hadn’t moved, he was slouched on his stool rocking back and forth in muttering shock, reeling from Bert and Ants earlier revelations, oblivious to the carnage besides him. Do I have to do everything? Did the generals go over the top? No, but this fucker has to. So I ran and got the bouncers. Had the three not been half pissed, they might have noticed the trouble themselves. I was hoping the hefty trio would be able to bring some calm to the storm but instead they darted into the bar like Spanish bulls and between them they lifted the warring pair into the air. The two old bastards were still going so the bouncers showed them the door, head first. I watched as the two airborne war veterans landed hard on the tarmac floor outside. I worried for a second they might have been hurt but the pair soon got up and disappeared off down the street, still kicking the living shit outta each other.

“Right, they’re barred. For a month!” I told all of the staff.

After that the only people in the pub all night were the staff and they were basically being paid to get pissed. Earlier in the evening, before his funny turn, Dad had told the staff that they could help themselves to one or two drinks. This was a typical ‘buy your friends’ technique that Dad usually employs and the end result sees him getting walked all over. I, however, am not in the business of making friends. Sure enough Dads invitation had seen the beer flowing freely and the three meat heads on the front door were getting jollier and merrier. Had any potential customers walking by even thought about entering the pub, the site of this ugly rabble on our doorstep would of surly put them off. The only time they didn’t look so happy was when I quite politely told them that they had drunk enough free beer.

“The gaffer said the beers free mate” One of my henchmen barked back at me.

“The ‘gaffer’ said no such thing. The small rat face man, who just happens to be my father, told you that. I am the person in charge.”

“Where’s ye Dad gun to?”

“He has retired to bed.”

“Who owns t’pub then?”

“Well, my father does.”

“So ee’s the gaffer!”

“Er no. I am in charge.”

I stood my ground, looking up at the three burly, towering gorillas, making sure not to break eye contact with the one in the middle, who looked like the leader of the pack. These people are like dogs, I know the kind, you have to show them whose boss. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. First impressions count. We were all locked in an uncomfortable stance for what felt like hours, and I would have stayed there all night but at that moment I saw Clint and thought it was best to find out what had happened, so I decided to let’em off for now and deal with them later. I’m sure however, that they know I won’t take any shit, and I don’t expect that I’ll have to tell them again. If I do, they will have my fury to contend with.

I caught up with a sheepish Clint who was helping Curly sit down next to Miller, who was still in his corner, wiping the tears of laughter from his drunken red eyes.

“What the hell just happened?” I asked the three Stooges

Clint told the story. It turned out that the whole series of events had started earlier with the DJ incident. Clint had foolishly decided to play a trick on Miller. He had a bunch of fake scratch cards. They looked completely authentic. They appeared no different to the official cards that you could buy from a shop. The only difference however was that when you scratched them off they revealed that you had won £250,000.00. You only found out that they were fake when you looked at the small print on the back that told you how to claim your prize. ‘Place this card under the Christmas tree in December, and when Santa arrives, suck him off to receive your reward’. Miller had thrown his arms up into the air when he thought he had won, hence knocking the DJ who then spilt his flaming Sambuca all over himself. Miller had then quickly noticed the joke when he read how to get his money. He had then chased after Clint and after a few digs to his nugget, confiscated the remaining fake tickets that Clint still had. When I had earlier noticed Miller acting suspiciously, it’s turns out that the feckin knob’ed had placed one of the joke tickets on the bar, and sat himself in the corner to watch what would happened when one of the old bastards picked up the ticket. What a prick. Was he sorry? Of course not, though I didn’t get time to point out why he was such an utter twat because a group of raised, cheery voices were shouting out for me.

“Oi Boss, BOSS, cum ova’ere”

I was being summoned back to the three amigos at the door, who now had with them our tiny, crazy chef who was performing a dance of kung fu moves, doing his best to impersonate Bruce Lee, with sound effects.

“Show us what ye wudda dun with them two fackin ol’farts if you’d gotten hold of’em first” The big fat bouncer in the middle, with the strange little piggy face, said to my theatrical chef.

One minute I was stood in the middle of this happy group, the next I was on my back, staring up at the yellow ceiling with my eyes popping outta me head and the breath squeezed out of me. This tiny little bastard had flipped me over and had me in a choke hold. I didn’t want to look like I couldn’t take a joke but I didn’t want to look like someone who could be tackled so easily. I tried to reassert myself but only succeeded in looking like a fish out of water, flapping wildly. I ended up lying on the floor motionless, trying to ponder my next move. It was hard to think with all of the laughter going on, the loudest howls of approval coming from Miller who seemed to be having the time of his life.

I tried to do a crocodile roll, to break the midgets grip but this just resulted in him twisting my arm up my back and over my head. Eventually he let me go and though I really wanted to plant a killer right hook on the bastard’s chinless jaw, I thought I’d better let it go. 1, He was just a little man, 2, I didn’t want to look like a poor sport and 3, it isn’t good management to go around beating up your staff. Everyone was just having a laugh I suppose and I’m sure this was just some kind of retarded initiation. They all thought it was funny and I didn’t want to be sour grapes.

All fun and games tonight but from tomorrow, no more Mr Nice Guy. I’m not gonna be a King John figure. My rule will be absolute and brutally strict. The nicely nicely touch, which is my Dad’s favoured technique, is all wrong. People need tough rules and tougher leaders. We’ve got it all wrong today as a society. The flower power ideals have us brain washed. We think that we, people, humans, are basically good. We’re not. The only reason we’re not killing each other for scraps of food and other desirables is because law threaten to incarcerate us, or worse, if we break the rules. However, nowadays the threat of law is getting further and further away and so society breaks down, people are playing up. Well not on my watch, NOT IN MY PUB.

Later, when the pub had finally closed and I’d waved off the last of the staff, I stood outside and looked out to the swooshing sea. Even in the dark it was astonishingly beautiful. The moon cast an exquisite milky white light over the breaking gentle waves. It was so calming, and it allowed me to gather my thoughts on my first day as captain of the Titanic. Success wasn’t going to be as easy as I initially thought, but that is fine. Success that comes via hard work is all the sweeter.

I stood alone and embraced the tender night breeze and took deep breaths of the new clean air. My ears had been enjoying the soft rolls of the waves on the beach below but they were interrupted by the sound of big ugly sirens as the second ambulance I had seen tonight whizzed past me. As I looked down the road, towards the direction that it had come from, I noticed a large buzz of activity. There were police cars, more ambulances and the fire brigade. A young couple were walking past the front of my pub and I called out to them, asking what was happening. They told me that two old men had been killed. One had pushed the other over, who fell into the road. SPLAT. Hit by a drunk driver. The other old git must have shit himself and jumped off of the Downs (the cliffs) across the street. The couple wandered off, heckling the stupid old drunks. Fucking hell. First night and we’ve already lost our best customers. Fucking Miller.

I was just about to go back inside, when another person passed the front of my pub.

“Is that your place mate?” A police officer asked.

Yes, I answered, with a stir of pride.

“Well what the’ell is that?”

Just then I heard the long spluttering of wind breaking. I spun around and saw my bedroom window open and someone’s arse sticking out of it. Thankfully not bare.

I apologized to the officer and said it was just some stag party guests that we had in residence and I would deal with them immediately. He seemed fine with that and plodded off but groups of drinkers who were coming out of our neighboring pubs had begun to take notice.

“Oh no he isn’t” Miller’s voiced called out from inside the same room. “He can keep it out there until he’s emptied it. He fuckin stinks. I’m not having that smell in here. It gets into the fucking wall paper. I’m trying to get ready here. We’re going into town on t’pull and I don’t want my snappy slacks smelling of shit!”

“Well go the bathroom then”

“It’s all the way downstairs!” Clint shouted

“I don’t care!”

We might have argued longer but the group of drunks, who had now gathered to watch, began to start throwing stones, betting each other who could hit the target first. Clint soon shifted his arse when they smashed one of the glass panels next to him.

About Memoirs of a bar steward

Jacob Cox is 18 and finds himself running his family's new business, a dilapidated bar in a forgotten seaside town. Jacob longs to escape his family of villains, liars and psychopaths. Could the bar be his last chance to make money and get away from everyone he despises? Is his family really that bad or is he actually worse than all of them put together?

To make the business a success he needs help from his dangerous twin brother Miller, his disastrous best friend Curly and his annoyingly cool younger brother Clint. It's a perilous undertaking with monstrous foes and maybe even love (or just deadly sex). If his con artist father, gang member mother, and his sinister little sister Marie don't destroy his plans, maybe, just maybe he can escape.

A screwball comedy about a dysfunctional family who need each other to survive.

SAMPLE BLOG ENTRY:

Saturday 19th August 2000

1542 Hrs

THE MEETING

Dad should be French. He gives up too easily. He spends too much time feeling sorry for himself, and not enough time doing anything useful. He woke me up early this morning at 10am to tell me that he was calling a critical family meeting this afternoon (secret from Mom of course) at 1 o‟clock, because he had something very important to discuss with all of the family. Dad of course didn‟t really have the authority to call meetings about my business but I thought I would indulge him; he might surprise me and have something useful to say.

“Last night I learnt new information which caused me to **** my pants”. Well done Dad, what a great way to start a business conference, I should use that line when I‟m in Parliament in a few years. He went on to explain to Miller, Clint and Curly what the late Bertie and Antony had told me and him before they killed each other last night (basically that the pub makes **** all money).

“I‟ve got enough dough to keep this place running for roughly a month. If it isn‟t making any money by the end of that period, then we‟re ****ed. We‟re gonna lose the business, we‟re gonna lose the roof over our heads and I‟m gonna lose….well we‟re all going to lose our shot at the good life. What I want from you lot are ideas to get the punters and the money rolling in”

I tried to tell Dad that he was worrying for no reason, that I had a Masterplan but he wasn‟t having any of it. He said that he wanted us all to go off and have a good, long, hard think. He has called another meeting (yet again he stressed, no word to Mom about it) for 3 o‟clock tomorrow, where he wants to hear what we have come up with. He said he will be picking only one idea and then we all must concentrate our combined efforts on it. Well if it makes the Umpa Loompas feel like they are contributing, then I suppose it will make for a happier chocolate factory, but I‟m sure everyone will see that I am the big Willy Wonka here!

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Author

Memoirs of a bar steward is created by Scott Evans. If you would like to get in touch with the author you can email him at